<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Sad and Lonely Boys by Hopetohell</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769451">Sad and Lonely Boys</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Night Hunter (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cockwarming, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Light Angst, Meet-Cute, Mild Peril, Oral Sex, Phone sex hotline, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Threesome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:54:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter calls a phone sex hotline, but really he just wants to talk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/Mike (Hellraiser)/You, Walter Marshall/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This isn’t a romance, not really. And it isn’t an adventure story, or a mystery. This is a story about lonely people. This is a story about you, and about Walter, and his voice in your ear. </p>
<p>This is a story about the job you took last spring, the one you can work from home, the one where you slip on your headset and take your mind someplace far away while your mouth lets out the most indecent moans, while you ask lonely men <em>hey there, hot stuff. Can you guess what I’m wearing? </em></p>
<p>And it’s easy, it pays well and no one seems to care if you mean it, until this one guy. This fuckin guy. This Walter— although he doesn’t tell you his name at first, not til way down the line at the station, but that’s for later. At first he’s just a voice, the kind of accent that makes you sit up and take notice, rich and smooth and maybe just a little south of sober. He sounds like whiskey and low light, like smoke, like the dirty thoughts you shouldn't be having about him. He's a client, it'd be weird. It'd kinda be like your waiter sitting down to table with you. So you're definitely absolutely <em>not </em>touching yourself while you listen to him talk.</p>
<p>You get guys like him sometimes, lonely men who just want to hear a friendly voice. Guys who, for whatever reason, can't or won't go out to meet in person. And they're harmless, mostly. They just want to talk, to lay their troubles at your feet and hear you murmur soft encouragements at just the right moments. You could be anyone and they wouldn't care, as long as you were listening. But Walter-- Walter's a little different. He wants to hear you talk, for one. He speaks, hesitant at first, cutting off your steamy warmup spiel. <em>No, nothing like that. I just. Can you just talk for a while? About anything. Tell me about what movies you like, what you had for breakfast. </em>His voice is thick when you first pick up, like maybe he's close to tears. But he listens, and when he speaks next it's a little steadier.</p>
<p>
  <em>Thanks. Take care of yourself.</em>
</p>
<p>It happens again, and again. Same day, same time, for weeks. You'll pick up the call and there he'll be, sometimes a little slurred and sometimes not, always sounding dark and smoky like sex on legs. And you've imagined what he might look like, but it's always changing. And he doesn't talk about himself much, but there are little bits and pieces here and there. He works a lot of nights, drinks too much coffee. You think about him holding you, think about more til you have to clamp down on those thoughts. He's a client. You'll never even meet the guy. Besides, it's unprofessional.</p>
<p>This is a story about Walter, who you haven't met yet. This is a story about you in the blue glow of your laptop, waiting for him to call. This is about that creep in the van across the street. You know, the guy who's been staring through your open curtains for an hour. No? You don't know? Well. Better hurry up and see him, because he's got a roll of duct tape on the passenger seat and a whole lot of tarps in back. </p>
<p>This is Walter's voice in your ear, <em>Hey, it's good to hear-- wait. Something's wrong. Talk to me.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Someone outside, some guy. I'm scared.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Where are you? </em>And it's probably stupid to keep talking; you should be calling the cops. But instead you're talking to phone guy, giving him your fucking address, and all the while he's low and soothing in your ear. <em>It's okay. It's okay. Stay with me. Someone is coming to help.</em> And someone does come. Lights and sirens roll down the block, and the creep in the van drives away in a hurry. </p>
<p><em>He's gone, thank god. He drove off and-- shit, hang on. Someone's at the door. I think it's the cops. </em>And for a while it's statements and someone making tea in your kitchen, and at the end of it all someone leaves a card and says </p>
<p><em>Come by the precinct tomorrow. We'll talk a little more then, get a sketch of the guy if we can. Someone will be outside til morning.</em> And when they're gone, so is phone guy, the absence of his voice a surprising ache.</p>
<p>This is a story about the next day, about you sitting in a hard plastic chair, half-hearing the murmur of voices through closed doors. Then the door opens and your heart is in your fucking throat because that's it, that's him. Phone guy. You'd know that voice anywhere, tight and strained. He's arguing with someone, arms crossed, and he is gorgeous, tall and thick and hairy, like an angry bear or-- or a guard dog. Something fierce and protective. Whatever you'd imagined, it wasn't this. This is better. </p>
<p>This is terrifying. And god, he sees it, doesn't he, that panicked expression, and his shoulders go up as his head goes down, trying to be small because-- <em>oh god, no, no, it isn't you, it's just--</em> and now he knows. Now he's heard you, and he's backing away, turning, leaving. This is you and him, and the incipient bad idea that has you chasing after him, that has you crying <em>please, stop, talk to me. For christ's sake talk to me. I don't even know your name. </em></p>
<p>This is some guy in a rumpled suit going <em>don't mind Walter. He's been so tetchy today. God knows why.</em></p>
<p>This is you, at work, again. This is night after night of sad and lonely men, horny bastards, sweet things with love to spare. This is that little twinge of dissatisfaction every time it's not him, even though you know it never will be. Not now. Not that you know each other's faces. This is the sound of a call coming in, of a familiar voice down the line. This is him, awkward and strange, trying to apologize. And this is a choice you make, a leap you make off a ledge you didn't realize you were running toward. </p>
<p>
  <em>Hey. You know I'd talk to you for free. Why don't you come on over and see me?</em>
</p>
<p>This is the longest pause in the history of long pauses, a moment stretching out into infinity while you wait for him to stammer out an excuse, or for the line to simply go dead. </p>
<p>And then.</p>
<p><em>Okay. Okay. Yeah. Does now work for you? </em>Does it ever. </p>
<p><em>Five minutes ago would work even better </em>and that draws a little laugh, a breathy can't-believe-it chuckle, and then there's rustling, clinking, the sound of an engine; he's on the line and talking for once, low and breathless with a smile hidden somewhere in his voice. </p>
<p>This could be the part where he cuts off mid-sentence with a curse and a crunching sound and screams somewhere close by. It could be the part where you call his name over and over down the line, waiting to hear something, anything, from him. This could be a newspaper article about a homicide detective hurt or worse in a crash. It could be, but it isn't, because this is not that kind of story. </p>
<p>This is the kind of story with an ending that's really a beginning. It's the kind of story where Walter shows up on your doorstep with the phone still to his ear, hair wild like he's been raking a hand through it. And his soft, deep <em>hey </em>echoes and doubles through phone and headset and your naked ear; the sound is rich and rolling and you tell him <em>please. Come in. </em>This is the kind of story where you sit at the kitchen table and talk for hours, til the sky's growing light. This is about you and Walter, and the way your fingers brush when he lays his hand down next to yours.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. By Proxy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We have now gone full smut.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s him again, isn’t it, calling deep in the evening. <em>Mike. Hey. </em>And Walter’s in the doorway, coming back from some errand; he’s amused, until he isn’t: until he hears that name fall from your lips. His eyes burn suddenly dark  and he rolls his shoulders; sweetness falls away. </p>
<p><em>Put him on speaker. </em>Walter crosses to the couch and sits, tugging you down to straddle his broad thighs. <em>Michael. Sweetheart. Good to hear you. Do you remember what we talked about?</em></p>
<p><em>I— yeah. </em>Mike’s breathless, anticipatory. And you’ve guided him through an orgasm or two, but he hasn’t sounded quite like this. Not until Walter, who strokes your cheek sweetly before reaching into your shorts, tracing a fingertip lightly along the seam of you and back, til he reaches your ass and </p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. What shall I do with her? We’re on your time now, sweet boy, let’s hear it. What do you think? Would you like me to have her ass? I haven’t yet, you know. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ah—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And you’re imagining it now, aren’t you, Michael? That sweet little ass split open around me. But. Michael. Which of us are you picturing in her?  —shh,  sweetheart. Don’t worry, have a little patience, I’m talking to our friend right now— Or could you be picturing me inside you? Picturing the way you’d feel, so full. </em>
</p>
<p><em>I— fuck. </em>Mike’s barely breathing, gasping out raggedly and Jesus, is Walter ever in his element, sending you to the bedroom; when you return, the click of the lube opening is loud like a shot. <em>It’s all of it, alright? Everything you say, it’s just on loop inside my head, and sir—</em></p>
<p>Oh. Oh, Walter likes that, <em>oh, that’s a good boy. Now Michael, listen. I’ve got my girl ass up over my lap. I’ve got her on a towel, Michael, because this is going to get messy. Would you like to hear me fingering her open, sweetheart? </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah. I uh. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She whispers, sometimes, Michael. She wonders what it’d be like to take both of us at once, when I’m in her deep. She likes it when I slide my fingers into her ass, sweet boy, and tell her all about how you’d fuck her there, how you and I would be separated by only the thinnest bit of skin. —yes, sweetheart, I know. I know. You want him to hear it, the first time you take my cock in your ass. So greedy— Michael. I don’t exaggerate when I say I’m big. It takes work just to get into her cunt. So think of how she’ll feel when I take her ass for the first time. Think of how she’ll gape open after, even with all my care. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Now, I had a feeling you might call tonight, sweet boy, so we plugged her up beforehand. But it’s not enough, is it —sweetheart, tell our friend how much more it’ll take—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike. Listen. Jesus, it’s. The plug’s sitting heavy in my ass, Mike, and knowing that it’s there, that he’s gonna take it out and finger me open, that he’s gonna fuck me with that thick cock— Mike. There it is, he’s got— fuck. Oh, Mike, he’s just taken it out and listen, listen, —ah, that’s fucking cold—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Language, sweetheart. Now be a good girl and spread your cheeks for me. Keep talking. Tell him all about what I’m doing to you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Walter, come on, I— okay. Okay. Mike, that’s two, it’s two, and oh— Mike, it already feels like so much, I think I can feel all his calluses and it feels so stretched. How am I going to fit— fuck, more? Christ, I</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sweet thing. There’s always room for more lube. And god, I love to see you messy. Filthy, even, slick and shiny for me. And listen. Michael, I wish you could see this. I can see right inside her. All her secrets belong to me— don’t they, beautiful— and our poor girl is just overwhelmed, aren’t you, can’t even speak. That’s alright. I’ll tell him. Shh. Relax. Push out. I know it’s strange. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Michael, can you hear that? Those weak little moans? I’m inside her now. And Christ, she’s like a vise around me; I can’t wait to watch you in her, Michael; can’t wait to see your eyes roll back when you feel this. Wait for me, Michael. Don’t come til I do, can you do that for me? Grab your balls if you have to, I want you to come with me if you can. Want you to imagine filling up her ass, touching her so goddamn deep, Michael; we’ll paint her insides and leave a mark. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck, Mike, Walter—sir— please, I can’t, It’s so much, how can I— please, your hand on me, I need, I need</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, that’s my good girl. It’s okay. You don’t have to hold back. I’ll lead— unh. Lead you in. Michael. It’s time. With all your strength, sweet boy. Shatter for me. My hand is on her, oh, she’s so</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetheart. Are you with me? I know. Shh. I’m taking it out now. How do you feel? Mmm. I’m so glad. You did so, so well for me, you took it like you were born to have my cock in your ass. Look at all that come, sweetheart, all that pearly white. Let’s put your plug back in, darling girl, so you can hold it all inside for a little while longer. Think about our friend in you, fucking through all that mess. I know, I know you want it so desperately. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. Listen. Clean yourself up. Have something to eat. How do you feel? Alright? Good boy. Listen to your body. You know where to reach us if you need. I’m going to go now, Michael. I’ve got to look after our girl. She’s so worn out, so loose-limbed and lazy. She’s practically asleep already— shh. There she goes. Good girl, rest. I’ll take care of you. And Michael. Soon, if you’re amenable, we’ll meet in person. <br/></em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sea Change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>At last, they all meet in person.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s understandable if it’s awkward. It’s a first time, and first times are always strange (the first time Walter opened you on his hand, the first time he told you <em>good girl </em>to feel the clench of you around his fingers, the first time you saw beyond the sweet-and-scruffy to the weariness of work and the scars across his shoulder and the way he always seems a little lighter when he’s feeling  your mind and body fall apart around him). It’s a shift, a sea change, a feeling of lost footing. It’s the breathless moment of waking from a falling dream, safe and secure and yet your heart is pounding like it’ll leap from your chest. </p>
<p>It’s Mike on your doorstep, fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot because he, too, is in the throes of change. He thought about flowers, or chocolates, all the things he might woo you with, but in the end he brought</p>
<p>
  <em>(Just yourself, sweetheart. Yourself, and your mind, and a message to a friend to tell them where you are.)</em>
</p>
<p>Because Walter is safety and security and the gentle inexorability of absolute domination, and he still worries. He worries about you, and now about Mike, and he wonders, perhaps, how he’s found himself here, guiding you in a way that’s as natural to him as breathing and yet somehow came to him so unexpectedly. He wonders how it happened, and yet he slips into his role like he's putting on a favorite sweater; all the taciturn gruffness of work falls away and what might be a frown or a <em>hm </em>at the precinct is replaced with a <em>there you are, sweetheart. Have you eaten? Hands on the headboard, now, and don't move.</em></p>
<p><em>There is never any shame or consequence in stopping, Michael. Even I sometimes have to safeword out. </em>And that’s a surprise, isn’t it, to Mike, who wraps his mind around the concept of domination with a cost, of bearing that kind of weight. <em>There's always a cost to everything, Michael. Even if you can't see it.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>(Hey. Hey. You've had a day. Please, can I kneel at your feet? Can I lay my cheek against your fly and just feel you there for a while? Let me feel the beating heart of you through flesh and fabric)</em>
</p>
<p>And here are Walter and Mike at the kitchen table; Walter slides over a mug of something warm, something to keep Mike's hands busy while they talk, while Walter lays out rules and gives Mike time to think and process and bow out if he needs. But Mike is young and earnest and he leans closer, closer, soaking up Walter's calm authority. And now there are three; Walter catches you about the waist and draws you down, draped front-to-back against his chest, and </p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetheart, I think our friend is amenable to our arrangement here. And you? What do you think?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>God, yes, I want to taste him, want to feel him in me. Sir, can I? Can I have him?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(When I was young and foolish, Michael, when I didn't know better, I hurt someone. I carry that weight now, for always.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Why are you--</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I need you to understand, Michael. Sometimes you will want what I can't give. And it's not because I don't care for you, or that I think you're undeserving. There are some things I just-- can't.)</em>
</p>
<p>And this is Mike in the bed with his hands fisted in the sheets; this is Mike with a pink flush from neck to navel and all the long lines of his flesh on display. This is him trying so hard not to touch, to let you lead him, but his hands twitch with the want to be on you. </p>
<p><em>It's alright. Just please don't pull. </em>And you suck him down while Walter watches; his hand is easy on your folds, warm and reassuring; his fingers curve and hook and make you whine and </p>
<p><em>Sweetheart. What do you think about taking us both? I want to see him fill your pretty cunt with his seed. I want to feel his cock practically touching mine when I come inside your ass. Want you to scream and cry and beg for us, sweetheart.</em> And yes. Yes. Absolutely, unequivocally, don't-even-have-to-think-about-it</p>
<p>
  <em>yes.</em>
</p>
<p>And when you draw back, Mike follows; he flows like water to Walter's hand, to where you move to settle on knees and elbows. And he worms his way under you; from below he watches Walter's shining fingers disappearing into your ass and when Mike rises up to lick your folds Walter is so very pleased; from deep in his chest comes his <em>good boy, there you go. Good instincts. Make her wet, make her come apart. I want to feel her gripping at my fingers with that pretty ass and know it's because of how you've brought her off.</em></p>
<p>And for a time it's all wet sounds and the slickness of fingers and tongue; Mike fumbles a little but hs catches on; one <em>little to the left </em>or <em>suck, just there, harder, please, that's-- </em>and he commits the move to memory; you can nearly feel his smile against your folds when he gets it right. And he pulls you apart with raw enthusiasm, with his own desperate need, and when he makes you cry out and clench there's that answering growl from Walter, resonating through him.</p>
<p>
  <em>That's it, good boy, look how well you've pleased her. Now look at how loose and relaxed she is-- I know, sweetheart, soon. Soon you'll have us both inside you; can you imagine how full you'll be? I know, I know. We've vetted him so thoroughly, sweetheart. Don't you want to let him come inside?</em>
</p>
<p>And when Walter works you open it's with time and care; it seems to take forever til he's ready, til he strokes a fingertip around the rim of your ass to watch it try to close helplessly around him. He says <em>Michael. Now. Lie back, sweet boy, feet on the floor. Sweetheart-- there you go, that's it, take him in nice and slow. Doesn't he feel good inside you? Michael. Touch her, feel yourself in her where your flesh joins up; god, you look a sight. I almost don't want to get inside her; I want to stand back and commit this to memory. </em></p>
<p>He almost wants only to watch, but not quite. And so when Mike is fully seated Walter presses up behind you, angling your body; he is warm and firm and his cock slides slickly up the cleft of your ass; it catches at your rim and oh, he's so close, any moment now you'll feel-- </p>
<p><em>There you are, sweetheart. So warm, so-- fuck. </em>And Walter is so rarely at a loss for words but he is now; he breathes through it, through tightness and slick turned blood-warm on his cock; he concentrates and swears he can feel Mike where he presses deep into your cunt. <em>Alright sweetheart?</em></p>
<p>And <em>yeah, yeah, please. Move. Give me more, give me everything. </em>There's not much room for movement, with the angle and the press of bodies and their care, their gentleness beyond gentleness even as they're splitting you apart. Mike is nearly out of his head; his eyes are hazed and lost, and when you plant a hand upon his chest his gaze follows it and he is helpless; he is reduced to a body and a cock and his mind is <em>gone. </em>But when you husk out move he does, so carefully, so slowly that it's torture. And he and Walter find their balance, somehow, metronome steady until they aren't, until Mike spills first with a grimace and a breathless</p>
<p>
  <em>fuck</em>
</p>
<p>but his instincts come into play; he has his hands on you warm and broad and bringing you off; he's sensitive and hissing with it but Walter still moves slow and inexorable like the shifting plates of the world. And when at last he feels you clench, feels that sudden rippling squeeze of orgasm, he lets go and it is good; when at last he lifts you free and lays you down in bed he touches you with wondering fingers; he sees come and lube shiny everywhere, on you and in you and smeared across himself and Mike; everywhere gleaming and filthy and </p>
<p><em>Hold her close, I'll clean you up. </em>And so he does, and he is close now at your back; the sheets are a mess but he finds enough of them to cover all of you. And so here, in softness, you rest. You feel Walter's fingers playing with your ass, speculatively; he sees you tired and spent and he will not ask for more, but how he admires you. <em>Darling girl, I am impressed. More than that. I am in awe of you, of the resilience of your body and the strength of character it took for you to let us in. You are a marvel. And Michael-- sweet boy, how well you've done. I gave her into your hands, and look at how you rose to me, how you surpassed my expectations. Now we rest, and then we'll eat, and then. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>(Every action, good or bad, informs the next, Michael. Nothing we do is in a vacuum; if my past rides my mind it only drives me forward, drives me to do better. To be better. And here I have been given a gift greater than I ever hoped for, probably more than I deserve. I offer you this gift to share, to join us here for as long as you are willing.)</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In the Letting-Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike has a secret. He has a secret and a terrible poker face and he is hard in his jeans, waiting for the moment of discovery. And Walter knows his boy is hiding something but he waits; if he can wait out a suspect at the precinct he can surely make Mike crack. </p>
<p>Mike fidgets at dinner and who would’ve thought a little<em> Michael. Be still for me </em>would be so damned arresting but it is; even you feel that pull, that almost automatic</p>
<p>
  <em>yes sir </em>
</p>
<p>trying to climb up from your throat. And you watch them in their dance from your place between Walter’s legs, as Mike tries not to fidget and Walter clenches his hands around his cutlery. </p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetheart. Michael. Must I be disappointed?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck, I hope not. I thought you’d like—</em>
</p>
<p>And there it is: Mike peels away his shirt and oh, that’s new: bars through his nipples and a flush up his neck and <em>oh </em>it’s a beautiful sight. And Walter thinks the same; he must, for how his eyes have gone so dark, for how he tightens his focus until all he sees is metal shining in Mike’s flesh. <br/><em><br/>Michael. Who are these for?</em></p>
<p>And you can hear the answer behind Mike’s teeth, the glib <em>it’s for you </em>that nearly slides out, but he reconsiders. He reconsiders and he makes his choice, and it is an honest answer. <em>They’re for me. And sir— I liked the way it felt. The sting and burn, and then the long ache. I can feel them under my shirt, sir, and every time I notice them it makes me get a little harder. </em></p>
<p>You hum around Walter where you warm his cock and his hand strokes softly at your hair; he lets you rise and fall to breathe a little easier but otherwise he keeps you there and <em>come back to me a moment, sweetheart. Are you holding up alright?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Mmm.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Good girl. So patient. Will you keep me warm a little longer?</em>
</p>
<p>And Walter pulses on your tongue with the beating of his heart, with the need that shivers through his veins; maybe if you’re lucky he will fuck your throat the way you like it. But for now you listen and you drift; this is a good place, a safe place, warm and musky and suffused with all the honor of holding him so intimately. </p>
<p>Walter speaks to Mike, who answers <em>yesterday, and Jesus, sir, they said six months but if I’m careful, very gently after one, and god, I want— I want—</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. Sweetheart. Tell me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>All night I imagined it, your mouth on me, rolling the barbells under your tongue; it's been so hard not to play with them and sir, I’m sorry, but I touched myself to the thought of it, and Christ I came so hard, I thought I’d </em>
</p>
<p><em>Back. Go back. You’re sorry? Fuck, I— Michael. Mike. Sweet boy. </em>And he is stricken, pained and tight and softening on your tongue; <em>Sweetheart, I don’t own that part of you. I didn’t think— come here. Please. </em>There is Mike, his hand petting absent through your hair while he leans on Walter and watches wide-eyed. <em>Michael. When you’re here with us you listen and you follow, but I never meant to make you think you needed to withhold yourself for me when you’re away. Forgive me. We should have talked about it. </em></p>
<p>And Walter is wrong-footed; it’s strange and it’s unsettling to see him as anything other than a beacon of calm. <em>Mmmh </em>you offer from around his cock and the sentiment is this:<em> you can’t always account for everything. For all the care you take of us, let us sometimes take care of you. </em></p>
<p>There’s a moment of tension that could go either way; Mike swallows heavily and says <em>please I want— I want.</em>  And he lowers himself down; with a kiss he takes from Walter something precious: a moment of weakness, of smallness, and he breathes it down into his lungs to secret it away. And so, swallowed down, Walter finds his strength in the letting-go. And you encourage him with your hands worked underneath his ass to grab at him, to urge him upward in a wordless plea, a </p>
<p>
  <em>please, please let me, Walter, need this, need your strength, I don't know what to do. Can I, can I</em>
</p>
<p>And yes, of course; it's what you need, this centering, this long firm press of him up into your mouth and down your throat. It's what Mike needs, with his hands creeping up to Walter's chest to flick and roll at his nipples, more sensitive than he'd ever thought, to give Walter the touches that he so desperately wants to feel for himself but cannot yet. And it's Walter brought back to center by the separation of mind and body; he gathers his thoughts into a single shining sphere, and even as he's pulsing hot down your throat he is reaching for the thoughts and words he'll need for this, for the talk he didn't realize he'd missed </p>
<p>(that hadn't even registered as an issue, as something to be negotiated but come on. It's Mike, and he is so good, so earnest, so endlessly giving, and perhaps he overthought it but <em>that's a good boy, Mike, thank you. Thank you for bringing this to my attention</em>) </p>
<p>There he is, rising back to himself. There he is and he's gathering you to him, thumbing his come from the corner of your mouth; there he is forehead to forehead with Mike for just a moment;<em> how did I find myself so lucky, to have the both of you here with me? </em></p>
<p>And there is Walter with his soft smile creeping back in, with his <em>I felt what you were up to, sweet boy. You want to use my body as a proxy, to learn what it might be like for you, once we can properly play with these. </em>And he draws a fingertip so lightly over Mike's nipple, feathering over the barbell there, and as much practice as you'd like, <em>sweetheart; you've brought me such a gift with these. But for everything you do to me, I will remember and give it back to you.</em> And it's Walter, so it's not a threat but only true.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>